Tag Archives: Vincent van Gogh

many people have spoken about
yesterday’s fragrance yet quite
a few have smelled it. memories
of love sweetened by youth: a
warm embrace under a moonlit
night bedecked with innocent stars
peppering the evilness of the dark
skies. somehow, it helps ease the
choking impressions of an already
saline life. and like the bubbly effect
of chocolates to an eager child,
yesterday’s fragrance provides all the
soluble answers to murky questions of
this unspeakable yearning for what was
then.

and then.

you are reminded of the sweetness of
teardrops from your first heartbreak,
of your first skin abrations won from
rough school games played by rickety
kids gone out of control, of how you
battled the mocking winds with bundles
of cogon grass out of frustration from
everything which disappoints the
expectations of an age filled with rage
and discotheque (you know those crazed
up kids — you give them knowledge,
they then think of you like wuss), of
your first anticipation to swim with
uncircumcised friends from your flowery
town’s myth-filled river peopled with
natives whose faces show the blankness
of a forgotten age and the very memory
you worship. and then, right after your
childhood garden tilts not to your favor,
you are reminded of how unfair life is,
how unjustified it is to finally meet your
life partner at a rather tardy hour; it is
just like a sumptuous dinner buffet
prepared just for you, but your meat-
hungry friends ate it all up because you
got stuck in an irascible traffic that was
not even of your own design.

smelling flowers was never our design, anyway.
the fragrance just happens to pass by from
time to time whenever the winds feel like it
wants to mock our futility to think and even feel.
But it will remain just that: a fleeting sensation
to our nostrils of hatred and bewilderment.